


Jailhouse Rock

by GeekishChic



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, Johnlock - Freeform, Light BDSM, Like Seriously I'm Blushing To Have Written It, M/M, Sherlock's 'Odd' Kink, Technically cheating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-23
Updated: 2016-04-23
Packaged: 2018-06-04 00:54:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6634489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeekishChic/pseuds/GeekishChic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stag 'do shennanigans...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jailhouse Rock

**Author's Note:**

> I've seen some things and did some things, but this is, I think, the dirtiest thing I've ever written for these two and I'm quite blushy about it. I think maybe it compares to some extended Mystrade I've written that was pretty bad. 
> 
> Still, why must everything I smut turn to fluff? There may be a second/third chapter because I just have so many feelings when it comes to these two falling in love. *sighs forever*

 

                                           

 

 

"You shouldn't... you shouldn't lay on your back since you've vomited," John drawled, the alcohol making his tongue thick and his vision somewhat blurry. When one got past a certain level of intoxication, one's brain tended to gag that little voice that announced when one had had quite enough to drink. 

 

The concrete was uncomfortably hard. 

 

Sherlock had automatically taken the meagerly padded bench seat of the holding cell. But at least it was cool down here. Yes. Lovely, cool wall. Yes.

 

 

Sherlock rolled over onto his right side, a spindly, suit-clad arm lolling before settling for resting his knuckles on the floor. He very much resembled a large cat, perched precariously on a tree branch, singular, almond shaped eyes of many colours slitted. John hilariously pictured scratching him behind the ear, somewhere in that black mop of glossy curls, that somehow maintained their tentative style through many vigorous activities. Of course his mind automatically went to what a shagged out Sherlock would look like. Not that he wanted to shag him or anything. He wasn't into blokes. But there was always a time when one wondered what someone around them would look like before, during, and after sex, whether they wanted to admit it or not. Sherlock was even more of an enigma as he'd chosen celibacy. John assumed he was lucky to escape his junkie days without having caught anything.

 

John opened his mouth to start to say something, but closed it again. It wasn't something you just asked someone, best mate or no. He'd tried to delicately ask Mrs. Hudson that time way in the beginning. She had no idea either.

 

"What?" Came the almost purred demand from the bench.

 

"What?" John returned innocently. It really was innocent, despite the subject matter.

 

"You're... thinking... too loud. What were you going to say?" Sherlock was making an effort to enunciate, his slight speech impediment showing up despite his best efforts.

 

"I just... I... No. Never mind. None of my business." Sherlock's eyes opened a bit further.

 

"You can ask me anything."

 

 

"How do I know you won't lie?" john looked at him curiously.

 

"I promise I won't lie."

 

"Alright..." John replied, his tone choc full of disbelief.

 

"Can't guarantee I'll answer but..."

 

Jon's mouth snapped shut demonstratively before saying it aloud anyway. "Well, never mind then." Sherlock sat up, then, making a smacking noise with his mouth before donning a disgusted expression. "Take some more water from the taps, if you can," John advised, shutting his eyes and leaning his head back again. Nice wall. Stabilizing wall. Sherlock wobbled and swayed over to the little steel sink in their cell. He took a moment figuring out the cold water tap then took in several scooped handfuls. John cracked one eye to watch, almost surprised Sherlock didn't lap it up with a great, bristly tongue.

 

"No," he said finally, wiping the excess on his face and returning to his former place and position. "No, some of the... the things I can't answer because Mycroft is fat." They looked at each other, then burst into helpless giggles, Sherlock's significantly more high-pitched when he was intoxicated. It was rather cute.

 

"What does one thing," John laughed, "have to do with the other? And really, he's not fat. At all. I would know. I'm a doctor, you know."

 

"And a soldier," Sherlock repeated, unwittingly bringing to the forefront, a memory of their first case together just after returning from the dead. At first it wasn't funny. It was actually pretty horrifying. But, then, they had a knack for finding the humor in the most inappropriate places, making them laugh a bit harder.

 

"And a soldier, yeah. Why do you... why is it that you antagonize him all the time?"

 

"He's always asking me things," Sherlock replied, deadpan, which of course inspired a burst of fresh mirth.

 

 

"Oh my God!" John cried, tearing up a bit and holding his belly. When he'd calmed enough to continue, he said, "No, I'm not trying to find out any government secrets. Above my clearance level. Not this time and definitely not from you."

 

"Ask away." Sherlock seemed to feel a bit better, rolling onto his back as he laughed, then sighed and belched, a thing that had him rushing for more water.

 

"Did you really want to be a pirate when you were a kid? Because you've got the Captain Jack Sparrow thing down, just now."

 

"That's not what you wanted to ask me."

 

"It is now."

 

"I don't see why it's so funny to you. Children aspire to be all sorts of things when they're small. Even impossible things. I'm sure you wanted to be a lion tamer or some such rubbish."

 

"Funny," John pondered, glad that their words were clearing a bit. "I always wanted to be a doctor and a soldier." Sherlock paused to search his countenance on his way back to his now established spot.

 

"Of course you did." He sat hard, leaning his chin on his long-fingered hand, covered with cuts and chemical burns and callouses. John was now more knowledgeable about how Sherlock could tell a pilot by his left thumb, though not the details. He'd have to ask about that later, for Sherlock was always willing to demonstrate his cleverness. No, John had a rare opportunity and would exploit it for as long as the window was open. Fuck it.

 

"You chose to be celibate, right? Well, of course you did. Look at you." Sherlock made a half-hearted attempt to find a reflective surface, and gave up after lifting his head became too much of a task. He settled it back down on his hand.

 

"What about me?"

 

"Well, you're all... tall and graceful and... unique looking."

 

"I do my best with what I have."

 

"You mean what you're blessed with."

 

"My looks are just a conglomerate of genetics and specific grooming, John, not attributed-"

 

"Alright, alright, Einstein." John still had trouble thinking of a way to put it that was more straight forward, but not rude. Someone had to counterbalance Sherlock's impertinence, and John seemed to do it automatically.

 

"Just ask. I promise you won't offend me." Well... that was the truth at least. So he just went for it.

 

"What turns you on?"

 

"Pardon?"

 

"When you were sexually active. What was your... you know... thing?" Sherlock looked almost as shorted out as he did when John asked him to be his best man. "Sorry. I just... you said anything.. and I'd been wondering for a long... sorry."

 

"No! I just... I expected you to ask about how I faked-"

 

"No! No, no. I'll save that one for later. Still too sore a subject at the moment."

 

"Right..." They sat in silence for a few more long seconds before Sherlock spoke again, shifting between sitting up and laying down. "I'm not a virgin if that's what you're asking. And, no, it wasn't experimental. Well, not _all_  of it."

 

"You wouldn't be you without some sort of official experiment having to do with every aspect of your life," John smiled fondly. "Even that."

 

"True. Many of the worst assaults and murders have to do with sex so it was something important to study. Of course they benignly label it 'crime of passion'. My experimentation was mostly on my own." John's heart fell a bit for the lonely kid Sherlock must have been. His seemingly childish rivalry with his brother had something to do with it, he was certain. "There was viscosity, flavour, volume, etc."

 

"Oh, right." John's eyebrows suddenly shot up into his hairline once he realized what Sherlock was talking about. "Oh!"

 

"I then moved on to seduction techniques. I've deleted most of them, but I was able to get almost anyone I wished into bed after a rather late stage puberty."

 

"What's 'late stage'?"

 

"I was fifteen before my voice even began to change instead of the others who started perhaps two years earlier. I tried to get it to do so prematurely with the smoking. Of course, being an addict, it didn't really matter after a while."

 

"I see..."

 

"I don't care about the genitals either way," he continued, flood gates seemingly opened now, information pouring forth in a great deluge. "I just wanted to see and experience differences outside of pornographic fantasy. I think I still have the journal somewhere in the attic of my parent's house." John imagined that Sherlock, if he was anything like he was now, left behind a string of broken-hearted co-eds. He then had another rather sobering thought.

 

"Did you...? I mean when you wanted drugs..."

 

"Did I sell myself? No. Traded sometimes. And sometimes it would just happen under the influence if we were in the mood or someone added an aphrodisiatic element to whatever we were taking."

 

"My God..."

 

"I was always extremely selective," he conceded. Always used condoms, my own needles, if they were required. Always had a home made miniature test kit with me. Drugs addicts aren't exactly the most reliable people." John couldn't control his shock, barely reigning in his horror at what he was being told. He was concerned his friend wouldn't confide in him again if he had any extreme reaction. Sherlock was still talking, however, seemingly oblivious to John's inner turmoil. He must have been fine with the way the conversation was going, but then again, John was hard pressed to dismiss the possibility that Sherlock knew exactly what he was thinking, and was just content with the response. Why did everything have to be so complicated? With all of these words, Sherlock hadn't even answered the question yet. This was the most personal information John had ever gotten out of his flat mate and it made his sentimental heart throb.

 

"H-how are you not an alcoholic then? I mean, I've rarely seen you drink. The only reason you're drunk right now is because-"

 

"You added shots to our beers. I smelled them immediately. But, you know, anything to make sure you were having a good time. And don't look at me like that. I'm not a puppy."

 

"What?"

 

 

"I fixate," he said, ignoring John's awe disguised as misunderstanding as usual. "Like I said, I'm selective. About everything." Another hard truth about Sherlock. John thought perhaps he was being given a gauge by which he could know the truth as opposed to embellishments or outright lies Sherlock would tell him. It was difficult anyway, through the alcoholic haze. He thought Sherlock was bad at blurting things out when he was sober. They almost got into several fist fights with others during the evening because he just couldn't keep his mouth shut for long enough. Maybe that's what this 'overshare' could also be attributed to. "But, in answer to your original question, I have several erogenous zones, all normal. Well, in one place or another."

 

"What do you mean by _that_?" 

 

"In one place in the world or another. Pay attention, John." Good 'ol Sherlock, confusing and degrading him for being confused by his cryptic and often unnecessarily complicated talk. "One of my experiments was to have people from all around the world. Like what you have a reputation for with your old Army mates."

 

"I..."

 

"Come now, "Three-Continents" Watson! No need to be modest. We _are_  having a conversation about our sexual preferences, and since I can read yours from your browser history and past girlfriends, I have more knowledge of yours than you do of mine. Hence, you asking me. I'm only answering the question." And taking bloody forever doing so. However, John found he didn't mind the long route.

 

"Sorry... I suppose. Carry on."

 

"Thank you." Sherlock straightened his shirt and cleared his throat, still comically wobbling a little even sitting. John could tell he really wanted to pace as usual but wouldn't be able to concentrate on walking and talking at the same time in this rare moment of what was, for him, un-coordination. "I have one at my left Trapezius muscle. Only the left, coincidentally just where my moles are." He put his fingertips to the spot to indicate what he was talking of. "Other rather normal places, ears, nipples, well, my whole pectoral area, actually. They function much like female breasts in that capacity. Penis of course. One place that may be considered 'odd' by the Western world is the axillary area." It was John's turn to blink for a moment.

 

"You have a sexually sensitive... arm pit?" he brought himself to ask finally.

 

"Yes, well, the outer edges of my pectorals going up into the, erm, arm pit, yes."

 

"What..." He almost didn't want to know, like when Sherlock would come home with a box of something from which there was sometimes movement or sound. But, in for a penny... "What exactly... what does it do?"

 

"Renders me immediately and nearly irrevocably aroused. Prolonged manipulation can actually cause me to become incoherent, even orgasm with little to no penile stimulation. Thinking back, it seems to have signaled the very first of my pubescent hormonal changes. At thirteen, forced to the shops with my mother, we ran into an old baby-sitter who had some sort of fascination with mussing my hair and tickling me when I was small. I wasn't paying attention to the idle small talk, as I was trying to figure out why I'd suddenly found her attractive. I supposed I did when I was little as well, as I didn't give her nearly as much trouble as I did the other ones." John just listened, flabbergasted. Sherlock would often talk, but not about this subject. He had to keep this going for as long as possible. There was no telling when or if he'd get another chance.

 

"There were other ones?"

 

"Thirteen-no-fifteen. My parents decided to double up a couple of times to see if that would work. It didn't." While they had a brief laugh over that, John suspected that he didn't delete the number because the bugger was proud of it. "Apparently during this boring conversation, she suddenly had the urge to re-live old times. She mussed my hair and picked up my arm to inform me of how skinny it was before tickling me beneath it. I nearly broke my ankle, fleeing to the gents. Hard to run with an erection." Didn't John know it. The normalcy of it all was still fascinating. "I actually did break my foot when I was fourteen-an unfortunate ending to an experiment with Mycroft's umbrella, don't ask-," Sherlock continued as if relieving himself of some life-long burden. It further proved John's theory of how much he'd needed a real friend besides Mycroft and uselessly wished he'd first met him back then. "I'd had to have a cane as I couldn't endure the constant stimulation proper crutches gave me."

 

"Hm." It was interesting if nothing else, Sherlock's rather clinical description doing nothing to stop John's overwhelming(read: drunk)curiosity. When all was said and done, though they seemed fine, they were both still quite intoxicated. It was the reason they were where they were in the first place. Besides, John was a medical man. It was perfectly normal to have an above average inquisitiveness regarding bodily functions. Those were his explanations to himself for saying the words, "That'd be interesting to see." He tried to work out whether or not he was taking advantage. No, it wasn't an average request, but then, Sherlock was full of socially atypical queries. It was nice to have one for himself, for a change. However, would Sherlock, with his vast ignorance of human behaviour, actually _understand_  it was a normally inappropriate response? The man himself spoke up as John struggled with the conundrum sobriety normally offered a ready solution to, the solution usually to keep his mouth shut in the first place.

 

"I've been doing some reading on psychology. Only a bit, mind you, as I think it's mostly bullshit. But I did just enough to be able to back up my theory that your therapist is bollocks and you'll need a new one. One that I've personally vetted-"

 

"Wait!" John finally found his voice buried deep in the mire of his dumbfoundedness. "You... you swear when you're drunk?"

 

"Or high... Or having sex...," He took longer than usual to think. "But usually I was high during the sex bit, so-"

 

"But you haven't done it all night."

 

"I was in public all night and, frankly, didn't have anything to swear about."

 

"You're so weird."

 

"Who's weirder, the weirdo or the one who chooses to spend all of his time with him?" He almost had him there. Only it wasn't exactly a choice. Sherlock seemed to get into one's life through the smallest chink, then slowly begin to expand until he filled every corner of it. A few years ago, it would have annoyed him. Maybe. All that mattered, however, was the here and now and, in the here and now, it was just part of their odd, yet incredibly well-running relationship. The image of Sherlock being shagged while swearing popped involuntarily into John's head and refused to go away. He was only able to bury it. For science. 

 

"Touché," John said. "Please, continue." Please. What was he even begging for? In his own mind, no less? 

 

"Right. So I read that children and teen-agers often compare their genitals, and, I have it on good authority that adult men are considered somewhat equivalent, behaviourally speaking." John could only shrug. He wasn't wrong. "So... it comes down to the proverbial, 'I'll show you mine if you show me yours'." That was a bit better. He knew he had nothing to worry about in that department, despite knowing, medically, size had very little to do with the ability to give and receive pleasure. It was just nice to know that he'd never had to experience wondering whether or not he was a good size. Every girl he'd ever been with seemed rather impressed.

 

"If all else fails, we can blame it on the alcohol, right?"

 

"Of course."

 

Sherlock slipped down onto the floor, catty-corner to John, his back against the base of the bench. He thought twice, then pulled the cushion off the bench and pushed it underneath himself long ways. He indicated with a semi-slight head gesture that John was to sit facing him. Sherlock shed his suit jacket, leaving him only in the two hundred pound button up John sometimes wished he could pull off. Sherlock carefully got up to hang the jacket over a rather inconspicuous-looking pipe. John took off his own jacket and deep blue cardigan as well. It was his nicest blue gingham button up tonight.

 

"Camera," Sherlock explained, again having to stop to say the words before continuing back to his seat.

 

"Really? I usually see those now." Sherlock re-positioned John so that they'd switched places before they casually began unzipping and unclasping their trousers.

 

"To be fair, you're rather intoxicated, John."

 

"So are you."

 

"Yes, but I'm me. Also, I'm significantly less drunk than I was before."

 

"That's not saying much." 

 

"True." John had reached into the front fold of his Y-fronts, whilst Sherlock had his hands on the band of what looked like simple grey cotton boxer briefs. "Red, John?" Sherlock almost snickered. "Going bullfighting later?"

 

"They're my lucky pants, alright?" He nearly turned the same colour, unsure why he was blushing over that as opposed to the fact that Sherlock was about to show him how he got hard from playing with his arm pits.

 

"Well then I suggest you either get a new mascot, or, better, don't put your faith in superstitious trinkets."

 

"I was wearing them the day you came back," he blurted, immediately sorry at Sherlock's out of place expression of abject humility. Sherlock had repeatedly apologised, citing he would do it as often as it took for John to forgive him. But John already had forgiven him, again having the urge to hug him just then, but couldn't, because of the moment at hand. He had to break the tension a bit. "Besides, bulls are actually colour blind."

 

"Is that so?"

 

"That is so."

 

"Are you stalling by attempting to refill my head with useless facts?"

 

"Probably. Though you can't discount that sometimes the useless facts end up being extremely important to a case."

 

"Yes, the Earth revolves around the sun, I _know_ -"

 

"For once, not what I was talking about."

 

"Oh." He seemed genuinely surprised. "Well, useless facts is what I have you for. Alright, on the count of three. One... two..."

 

"Wait! Wait, hang on a tick. Three and then go? Or one, two, and go on 'three'."

 

"On 'three'. One, two, then reveal. May as well do it quickly, like ripping off a plaster."

 

"Right. Just clarifying."

 

"Far be it from me to criticise you making sure you have your facts straight." John giggled nervously and he was suddenly a young teen-aged boy again, disappointing his school mates. They would usually complain and say it was because he was small for his age, so it looked bigger than it actually was. But that never explained how it was longer and wider than any of theirs. The proportionary explanation was off by a mile. Well, several millimeters, at the least.

 

Sherlock counted quickly and, they did it exactly as instructed, John pulling his out, Sherlock, for some reason shoving pants and trousers down until they were around his calves, both rather nervously attempting to put the other at ease by voicing their comfort with the other having a good look before anything else got started. Sherlock's was like him, long and lean, the top much darker than the rest, a slightly above average length when flaccid, but the potential to grow, if the visual markers were anything to go by. John was a 'grower' too, but, flaccid, he'd seen he was the same length and width as his old friends erect, therefore becoming that much bigger. He looked his fill as Sherlock undid two more buttons on his shirt, then rested his hands on his slender thighs, peppered lightly with rather ginger-ish hairs.

 

"Ready?" Sherlock asked. John could only nod, unable to take his eyes off of it anyway. "It may take a little longer than usual because of the amount of alcohol I've consumed."

 

"Right," John almost whispered. "Do you, erm, have a go-to picture in your mind or have to be looking at something you find attractive?"

 

"I'm all set," Sherlock said with one of his rather enigmatic smirks. "Alright. What works best is a sort of massaging motion, similar to tickling. I'm going to skip the usual foreplay."

 

"I see." And 'see' John did, for as soon as Sherlock touched his armpits, his penis twitched. Continued actions caused it to swell and lift, bobbing. John kept his own hands on his knees and watched intently as Sherlock's breathing became louder, more laboured. Soon there were other sounds mixed in, tiny gasps and quiet, short, moans. It couldn't have been more than fifteen seconds, but there he was, fully erect and breathing hard. It was actually pretty fascinating.

 

The only problem was, now John was as uncomfortably hard as the floor.

 

He hadn't thought he was in any terrible danger of being unable to control himself but here he was, obsessively licking his lips and trying to keep his breathing at a reasonable level and his hands on his thighs, though they began to slowly glide back and forth without him realising. 

 

"Thought you weren't gay," Sherlock stated breathily.

 

"I... I'm not. It's just... you're making these sounds and..."

 

"It's not that you're necessarily attracted. You just like to see anyone being pleasured," he stated.

 

"Yeah," was all John could say. Because he was thinking that he, for some reason, did find the whole tableau of an aroused Sherlock in particular, extremely attractive, perhaps more attractive than he'd ever found anything in his entire life. The ways in which this was problematic were covered in the thick sludge of alcoholic arousal, desire seeping into any exposed crevice.

 

"Well if I'm doing this, it would be fine for you to help yourself. It's only fair." Before his surprise at the statement could register on his face, John took himself in hand with long, extremely slow strokes, a sound of slight relief coming out of his mouth as he did so. Both of them were leaking at this point and John used his as lubrication, adding a bit of saliva for perfect friction. Once he was steadily stroking, Sherlock continued talking to him, speaking as if his only purpose was to make him orgasm. It was all so surreal. "You want to fuck me, don't you John?" Yes.

 

"No... I... well..."

 

"It's alright. I'm speaking... somewhat hypothetically. Just trying to... help things along."

 

"Oh," John gasped halfway between a relieved response and a reaction to his senses flooded with the essence of sex in the air.

 

"But, know that I am telling the absolute truth. I would not at all be averse to sitting on that thick cock of yours."

 

"Oh, God, Sherlock!"

 

"It seems to be... _oh!_  the perfect size for me. It's shaped the exact right way to hit my prostate with little effort."

 

"We've no lube," John murmured through clenched teeth, convincing himself he was just playing along with the fantasy, but unable to not be his practical self at the moment.

 

"Oh I'm fine with using saliva," Sherlock explained, puffing and licking his sharply shaped lips, still staring intensely at what John was doing. "I would take you into my mouth, make sure you could slide fully down my throat. My gag reflex is directly correlated to my state of intoxication. At this point, it would probably be non-existent." John's hand was increasing in speed, but only a little, as he saw the potential for this to be over before it started properly. He never did want to be the one to come first during encounters of this nature, and purely out of habit, with a good dose of inebriation, he wasn't going to start now. He also saw that Sherlock was holding back a bit and decided to remedy that. No matter the situation, Sherlock always responded to questions that would allow him to demonstrate how clever he was, whether or not he found the queries unreasonably idiotic.

 

"How would you keep me from shooting down your throat?" That seemed to help. A lot. Sherlock laid back hard enough that, but for the thin, mat-like cushion he would have given himself a concussion.

 

"Oh, John! I'll show you." Wait, what?! Before he knew it, Sherlock's mouth was on him, making filthy slurping sounds between brief, vague instructions on how John should handle his underarms. Sherlock had him just fiddling about there, the hair not very thick or plentiful, just like on the rest of his body. He repeated any action that elicited a more severe reaction naturally, even as he grunted out his own pleasure at Sherlock's expert fellatio. It seemed like it should have been more strange than it was, that he was forgetting something important, but that mouth opening wide to admit his member, the throat muscles wrapped around a good portion of him, made it impossible for him to think of anything else besides what they were doing, what else they were going to do. Sherlock sucked cock with a relish he'd hardly ever seen outside of the internet. He seemed born to it, probably practicing a lot, though there was very little that didn't come naturally to him.

 

"Fuck! Sherlock! I'm going to come," John blurted, but suddenly, he wasn't anymore. Sherlock grasped the base, pulling off with another wet noise, and just examined it, throbbing and leaking, copious amounts of the aforementioned lubricant combined with an abundance of saliva dripping in goopy waves, as he wheezed over the spectacle that was the result of his mouth's work. John had his head thrown back and was whining quietly at the ceiling, getting a little louder when Sherlock began unbuttoning his top for him, laying open-mouthed kisses on each subsequent inch of bared flesh.

 

"Whatever happens, don't you dare stop," Sherlock commanded in a moan. His tone had John wishing with all his might that he had unlimited stamina, because the only thing he could think of was-

 

Incredibly tight heat, swallowing his cock whole.

 

He fought the urge to thrust with the heaving instructions coming from somewhere close above him telling him not to move. He distracted himself with the bit of milky skin and sparse chest hairs before him, mouthing at them, and re-positioning his hands so that his thumbs could brush the nipples as well as lightly tease the main areas. " _Oh!_  Wait that's going to make me come way too quickly!" John had no idea what sort of lust-driven craze had overwhelmed any common sense he may have had. It often was that way with Sherlock. Many times, their logic existed outside of the norm, and this was no exception. John had an astounding desire to not only see Sherlock come, but be the instrument used in achieving his orgasm. He took his hands away from Sherlock's most active erogenous zones, much to the protest of the man currently not concerned enough to stop bouncing on his cock, and extracted the handcuffs he'd pilfered off the officer that had incarcerated them. He was just wondering if he could do it, as they hadn't cuffed them in the first place. He was not only extremely successful, but stopped trying to figure out why he did it. Taking Sherlock's right nipple into his mouth for a hard, slow, suck that ended with licking a trail just to the crease of where his arm met his torso, and Sherlock's arms held fast behind his back.

 

"Oh, fuck, John! What are you doing to me?" John answered by threading his legs through Sherlock's, and putting him on his back without disconnecting, so Sherlock could bounce that way for bit while John took his long, lean body in completely. He resumed what he was doing to the crux of Sherlock's arms and torso and his tightly pebbled nipples, the taller man demonstrating great flexibility as his trousers and pants were still around his ankles, holding his feet locked together behind John's back, John's torso holding his thighs wide, so that he could do nothing but continue fucking himself, bracing his still-shod feet against the side of the bench. A sheen of sweat became more visible as Sherlock's heaving chest began reddening with his impending peak. Sherlock cried out, begging John to not make him come so soon, but John refused, thoroughly enjoying, for once, having Sherlock under his complete control. He didn't even have to move more than his hands.

 

"This way," John puffed with his own effort not to meet Sherlock's up and down motions with his own, "You'll come all over your own shirt instead of mine. It probably costs more than everything I have on, including the pants."

 

" _Oh! Oh, right there!_ Probably."

 

"Good thing it's a light colour." The last couple of buttons were still fastened over Sherlock's lower belly and abdomen, cock so hard it hovered over it, but pre-ejaculate connecting the head to a little pool on it with a gossamer string. 

 

"P-please!" Sherlock begged. John could definitely get used to this. "Please! _Oh! Fuck!_ Please, John!

 

"Are you still begging me to stop? _Ugh!_  Because I could just stop _Oh, fuck!_  and there'd be nothing you could do."

 

"No! No, please! Let me come."

 

"But before you didn't want-"

 

"John, Please!"

 

"Come on then, love," he crooned, speeding his fingers up as Sherlock sped his thrusts, crying out, thighs shaking as his pulses spread sheer white from his jaw right down to its source.

 

" _Oh! Oh God! Oh, fuck! Joooohn!"_  

 

John opened his own shirt the rest of the way and slid it partially off his shoulders, for once not thinking about his bullet wound. He undid the rest of Sherlock's buttons as well, pushing aside the soiled flaps and using his tongue to clean up the rest, lingering on Sherlock's neck moles as the man continued to writhe and mewl in a most enticing manner. He kissed and licked and gently brushed wet curls back from Sherlock's reddened face, not quite reaching it for a kiss he desperately wanted.

 

"Don't stop," Sherlock pleaded. "Please."

 

"I'm hardly doing anything," John said soothingly, sitting up as Sherlock resumed properly impaling himself over and over again. "You're doing all the hard work." 

 

"You're staying hard for me." Sherlock didn't seem to be able to lift his head or open his eyes. He just mindlessly rutted as John got well back to his arm pits. The truth was, in this position, it was much easier for him to control his orgasm, a habit of making sure whomever he was with got as much as they needed paying off once again.

 

"Who wouldn't, in that tight little hole?" John swiped at some fluid on Sherlock's bared chest that he'd missed, and, adding it to his own saliva, applied it to the point of entry. "Need to keep you nice and wet down there. Wouldn't want you to chafe. You'll be sore enough as it is."

 

"Oh, God John! Please! Fuck me!" The words gave him the extra strength to spin them so they didn't slide across the floor any more than they had, and he began ramming into Sherlock, hard, their bodies not only making slapping sounds but solid, pounding noises, punctuated by Sherlock's grunts as each thrust hit home. In the distance, he heard Sherlock's jacket fall off the camera, but he was in some sort of a sexual berserker mode. Everything existed only to serve the encounter. 

 

"Think anyone's watching that monitor, Sherlock? Think they would have the balls to come in here and interrupt if they were?" The only answer was Sherlock's moans, increasing in volume and frequency. "All the noise you're making," John panted, "the way you look when all you can do is take it and enjoy yourself," John was sweating profusely himself now. "The guard probably wouldn't be able to help wanking himself into oblivion, no matter his preference." Sherlock was well and truly shouting by now, John having to talk over him. There was no indication whatsoever that he wanted to stop, or was even the least bit uncomfortable, even though he was being repeatedly crushed against metal at an awkward angle. "Only you, Sherlock," John began chanting in time with his movements as they sped up. "Only you could make me do this. No one else. It's always been only you."

 

Sherlock came again, babbling incoherently, yanking John over the edge with him, swearing the entire way.

 

It was, hands down, the best he'd ever had. 

 

He lay his forehead on Sherlock's chest for a moment, just trying to catch his breath before exchanging with him a coveted kiss that was sheer perfection despite it being so undoubtedly out of order. Despite all they'd just done, it was the kiss that actually sealed his fate. It was the point of no return. Any modicum of a delusion of possible reconciliation, let alone being with anyone else ever that may have been left over, was obliterated entirely by that kiss. His caregiver mode kicked in, having him locate the spare handcuff key Sherlock always had on him in some place people usually passed over when searching and releasing him. He briefly massaged the man's arms and hands, pointedly avoiding the pit area. Even when he got close, Sherlock's spent penis, soldier that it was, made a tiny jerk. He buttoned Sherlock's shirt and, with much effort, moved to be able to pull his trousers and pants back up. Only when Sherlock was completely set to rights, only moving minimally to help until John replaced the cushion and had him lay back down on the bench, did he work on himself. Then he was back to his own original position. The coolness of the wall even more welcome. What had even happened? Was this some sort of surreal dream? All he knew was that, if it was a dream, he hadn't gotten _nearly_  enough sleep. Or water. But the taps were all the way over there. And this wall was nice and cool, if a bit damp now.

 

"You know you can't possibly marry Mary now, right?" Came a sloth-like rumble, hoarse from all that shouting, John suspected. Also it was hilarious how much humans compared themselves and each other to animals. Also his mind was totally avoiding the question, though he knew he had to answer it, and truthfully. No matter what happened between Sherlock and he in the future, there was only one answer to that.

 

"No. I suppose not."

 

"I love you, John. Always have."

 

"Me, too," John replied, but Sherlock was already softly snoring.


End file.
